


Destiel - Coffee AU

by FelisMargarita



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Multi, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-09 13:24:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FelisMargarita/pseuds/FelisMargarita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t as if he really needed the job in the first place. After all, Dean Winchester was a man of simple pleasures. So, when Sam Winchester, little brother, gets accepted to Stanford, Dean takes up a job as a barista under family friend Karen Singer to make ends meet. And though Dean definitely wasn’t looking forward to selling his soul –nine to five, Monday through Saturday- to coffee beans, little did he know that his life would soon be thrown upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

           It wasn’t as if he really needed the job in the first place. After all, Dean Winchester could get by on little more than a six-pack, smokes and a good stack of porn. A good day consisted of waking up at noon, a solid lunch topped with cherry pie and a beer, working on his Impala for a good chunk of the afternoon, then slipping away to a bar to drink, eat, and perhaps find a cheap date or two. He was a man of simple pleasures and really had nothing to complain about. His life was easy enough.  
            Born into a family of four, his mother Mary spent her time at home raising her two rowdy boys into strapping young men. Their father, John, spent most of his time away from the house on business trips or something along the lines to keep the income flowing. John would pat his eldest son on the head, tell him to look out for his mother and his brother, and be out the door. He’d always been a little vague about his exact job, but Mary assured her sons that is was an honest line of work. Sammy, his little brother by four years, had just graduated from high school and was working hard on getting accepted into University. The brothers often chatted about Sam’s choice to go into Pre-Law, and Dean urged his little brother to apply to Stanford, much against their father’s wishes. John Winchester had stressed the fact to his children that they could not afford to send Sam to a higher-end school. But to Dean, no amount of money was worth a lesser education for Sam. His brother couldn’t have anything but the best in his eyes, -even if he’d never admit it out loud.

           It was no surprise when Dean came home and found Sam sitting solemnly on the front steps, envelope delicately pried apart in his hands. Dean had always known of Sammy’s capabilities, and his acceptance was nothing unexpected. The ominous sound of loud bickering from inside the Winchester household, however, was a shock. The eldest son distinctly remembers shoving the keys to his Impala into Sam’s hand as well as a crumpled up fifty, telling him to get lost and celebrate with his friends instead of moping on the porch. It wasn’t until Sam was well out of the driveway that Dean dared to enter the house. The next few hours were spent refereeing between his parents, defending his soft-spoken mother against his boisterous father. By the time Sam got home, he had barely caught his father ripping out of their street in his truck in a blind rage. To this day, Dean still won’t tell Sam the events of what had happened that day.  
            Since then, John didn’t return home for more than three days at a time. The time between visits increased as Sam’s moving date drew closer. It had been a particularly long absence before Dean decided to question their mother about their estranged father. With a solemn sigh, she mentioned how John had begun working longer hours since there was an apparent cut in his pay. Even with the extra hours, they couldn’t afford Sam’s tuition.

           That’s how Dean ended up here, outside a local coffee shop owned by a family friend of theirs. Karen Singer, wife of longtime family friend Bobby Singer, agreed to hire Dean full-time as a barista. It wasn’t the greatest paying, and it definitely wasn’t in Dean’s preferred line of work, but the faster he could get a job, the better. Sam’s tuition wasn’t going to pay for itself.  
            It was a decent little shop. The red brick exterior was clean, crowned with a white wooden trim. Matching white benches were placed under the windowsill with two flower pots on either side of them. The flowers were already in bloom; delicate white petals, pert in the prime of the annual cycle. Maybe daffodils, or some shit. Dean never really paid much attention to foliage. He supposed it looked good enough. Though, the highlight of the shop was definitely the large window that dwarfed the oak door in size. The window faced out into the street, ideal for crowd watching. Just from looking inside the window, Dean could spot a window seat amongst the many other wooden tables and chairs. The white cushions were no longer pristine, but a well-loved off-white. Rightfully so as well. Dean could tell this would be his favorite spot to spend time when the shop was dead, or he was on break.  
            It was quaint. It more than definitely embodied a homely feel. And although a coffee shop was definitely not a place Dean would like to work, the Winchester had come to the conclusion that ‘Café des Fenêtres’ wouldn’t be a bad place to be employed. It wouldn’t be bad, but Dean definitely wasn’t looking forward to selling his soul –nine to five, Monday through Saturday- to fucking coffee beans.

           Dean stepped towards the café door, pushing it open slowly. Maybe if he moved slowly enough, he wouldn’t disrupt Karen who was already ringing up a customer. The cheery little bell above the door had other plans for him however. The jingle split the lounge music mercilessly with its happy fucking jingle. The middle-aged woman picked her head up, looking at the door with a soft smile. “Dean! I’ve been expecting you.”  
            “Yeah, uh…” A weak, forced smile crossed Dean’s face.  He wordlessly apologized to the customer as the barista fluttered over to him, throwing her arms around Dean’s neck. With a soft chuckle, he looped his arms around her waist. “Hey Karen. Thanks for hiring me.”  
            “Oh, dear, it’s no problem. After all the times you’ve saved Bobby’s ass with stuff, it was the least that I could do for you.” Karen tugged away, pulling some slightly curled blond hair behind her ear so she could study Dean better. “Wow, Dean, you’ve sure grown up well! Look at you, healthy as an ox!”  
            “Thanks Karen, I mean-“  
            “Hey Margaret! Yeah! This is the boy me and Bobby keep telling you about! Yeah! The Winchester boy!” And with that, Karen was off again, returning to her customer. Margaret, or as Karen had called her, patiently nodded as Karen went off on another speel about how her and Bobby practically had raised the two boys. The café owner rambled on, fixing up Margaret’s drink, occasionally gesturing for Dean to get into the back of the shop, presumably for training and paper signing. And like the good little worker he is, Dean got his ass into the back.

           It’d been almost ten minutes until Karen had joined Dean in the back, toting a brown-apron and a matching brown visor. Dean presumed that Margaret had made her escape before Karen could pull out a photo-album of sorts to talk about for another hour or so. Smart woman. Karen was always a sweet woman and had her heart in the right place, but, she could definitely talk your ear off if she tried. Dean should know. He’d spent most of his childhood on Bobby’s heels, pining for a father-figure to play ball with and go fishing. Karen would happily tag along. And damn, he had never met another woman who could play tackle foot-ball quite like Mrs. Singer could.  
            The smile she wore was extraordinarily familiar as she shoved the uniform into his arms. It was the smile that was usually accompanied with the ‘Dean Winchester, so help me God, I will make you wear this even if I have to dress you myself’ look in her eyes. Dean knew the look well, -he could remember time and time again where Karen had wrangled him up to shove him into church clothes. He took the uniform without hassle, earning a thankful nod from his new boss.

           “It’s about time you learned Dean.” She chuffed, biting back a soft chuckle as Dean fumbled around with his apron. “Though, I think you’re a little too big for me to force into a nice suit anymore.”  
            “Well, this isn’t necessarily a suit, is it Karen?” A sly chuckle slipped past a half-smirk, tying the back of the apron tight. He rolled his shoulders as he put on his hat, frowning a little at how his brown hair poked out at all awkward angles around the brim. “Aside, I don’t think my size would stop you from trying. What do you think? Hat or no hat?”  
            “No hat. You look like a washed-up Barista Ken doll.”  
            Dean nodded appreciatively before he discarded his hat onto what seemed to be the staff lunch break table. “Thought as much.” He turned back to Karen, arms open wide with a cheeky grin. “Better?”  
            “Better.” The smile was returned as Karen fell into his chest, hugging the boy she’d taken into her family so long ago, -the son she never had. “It’s good to see you again, Dean.”  
            “You too Karen. You too.”


	2. The Poor Bastards In All Of Us

       It’d been at least a week since Dean had been shadowing Karen in her little coffee shop. It was simple enough work, as he had predicted. Smile and nod, listen carefully and follow with quick and precise execution, hand over coffee, “Thank you, have a nice day!” and the like, rinse, and repeat. The motions were fairly simple in that regard. After the fifth day of painstakingly redundant training, Karen decided that Dean would finally be able to open up with a couple of her other workers.  
       He hadn’t really gotten around to get all of their names, let alone get to know them. There was that one cute blonde that worked on Thursday and Friday with him, but he never got around to asking her much with Karen shadowing over him. He also hadn’t worked long enough to differentiate the regulars from the average customer. Thus far, he’d seen a few faces that may or may not ring a few bells; there was the hot co-ed going into education or some shit, with some kind of new-age name or something, and a few of her weird, giggly friends that frequented often.

       And though some part of him wanted to chat around, get to know some of the others, he kept true to his focus: Sam’s tuition was due by the second week of September. Currently, it was the last week of June, leading into a blazing-hot July. It was a bit of a time crunch, but, Dean was mostly sure that he could do it. If not, he was sure Sam could apply for loans, and together, they’d pay the rest of later.  
       Life was easy enough, Dean supposed.  
       Essentially, though getting the job wasn’t on Dean’s to-do list, he didn’t mind the work at all. After all, he’d done a lot worse for a lot less. And above all, he was doing it for Sammy. That made everything worth doing.

* * *

       There was that one time where John had attempted to do something with his sons, back when Dean was twelve, and Sammy eight. He’d taken the two up north and into the woods, geared up, for a father-son hunting trip. They’d packed their guns, their camping gear, and a plethora of junk food and meat into their Dad’s beat-up, old Chevy, and headed deep into the woods. The trip had gone okay, up until John decided he was going to head into town to get more provisions for supper, and leave the boys behind.  
       It wasn’t unnatural for John to leave Dean in charge. Neither of the Winchester sons were too broken up about John heading fifteen minutes into town, five shopping about, and another fifteen returning.

       Dean had assumed control of the situation. After hearing John’s typical ‘I’ll be back, take care of your brother Dean’, it’d become very normal for the eldest to play father-figure to Sam. He remembered tucking the younger brother away in their tent, setting himself up at his post by the fire. He could distinctly remember listening to the pop and sizzle of the burning flames, elbow-deep in a chip bag trying to get the remaining crumbs stuck in the corner.  
       Occasionally, he’d hear a noise, look around the campsite, and then look back to Sam to make sure he was doing okay. And of course, the little shit always was; he’d look up with that dorky, gap-toothed grin, wave, and then go back to playing.  
       This had happened three or four times before Dean began to feel a little on edge. Sam hadn’t noticed anything, too busy playing with his little toy soldiers. However, Dean started noticing that the noises turned into rustles, and an occasional low growl. He remembered peering into the bushes, slowly pulling his arm from the chip bag and letting it drop to the double-barreled shotgun at his side. His dad had left it with him ‘in case anything happens’, and told him to ‘shoot first, think later’. Dean had honestly never thought he’d be so itchy to use it.

       “Shoot first, think later. Shoot first, think later…” Dean could recall whispering to himself. He tucked the stock into the crook of his shoulder, pointed at the bush as the rustling grew steadier. Things kind of flew by as a blur from then on. Of course, things got lost in the mix of adrenalin and fear. And now, as a twenty-three year old, Dean couldn’t remember a lot of what happened, but, what he did remember was extraordinarily vivid.  
       Dean remembered hearing Sam’s little voice from inside the tent, asking if everything was alright. And as much as Dean would like to forget, he could perfectly recall the feeling of his heart dropping into the pit of his stomach. Sammy… Dean could barely remember anything outside the fear of something happening to his little brother. The next thing he remembers happening was the crisp bang of a gunshot, the wet shluck of bullets hitting soft flesh, a deafening roar, and then a white-hot pain.

       The next thing Dean could recall was Sam screaming, another gun shot, and then this dead, crushing weight. His arms were burning, liquid fire dripping down his skin as he tried to push whatever was on top of him off of his battered little body.  
       Almost moments later, though fuzzy, he remembers the weight being shoved off of him and being scooped up into his father’s arms. They were back in the truck and moving before they could even pack their stuff up. The car ride after that was a mix of Sammy crying, John speeding through traffic, and the horrible feeling of ache everywhere Dean could imagine. As they drove, the world around him slowly went black.  
  
       The next moment, he was awake and had all sorts of needles stuck in him, and stitches everywhere feasible. As he slowly faded back into consciousness, he remembered constantly asking for his little brother, and wanting to see if he was okay. The nurses had softly laughed at him, smiled, and then retrieved both his family and his doctor. They had sat him, his father and his brother down, and told them the bad news: they wanted to keep Dean to make sure he’d fully recovered, and it wouldn’t be another week before they could return home. Bright side? Dean could say he’d survived a bear attack and had a killer scar on his left shoulder.  
       Needless to say, Mary and Karen had lost their shit when the boys returned.

* * *

      Yeah, there wasn’t much Dean wouldn’t do for his little brother. Getting this job at Karen’s little coffee shop wasn’t even scraping the surface of shit Dean had done for Sam. It was slow, and painstakingly dull at times, but at least Dean could say the probability of him getting mauled by a bear were fairly slim. Thirty-five percent chance, at least. But, thirty-five percent or not, Dean had to haul his ass out of bed and actually get to work.  
       Morning routine commenced as it had since Dean had first got the job: up at seven to shower, brush his teeth, scarf down some kind of breakfast that fit in the toaster, then be out the door at a quarter after eight. The café wasn’t far from where Dean had got his first apartment outside his parent’s home, so it was just within walking distance. If he walked fast enough, he could get there with a few minutes to spare. Normally, he’d be jogging and taking the scenic route, but with the July heat, he didn’t feel like showing up to work sweating like a pig.

       Dean arrived at the shop at a quarter to nine, stepping inside the already open café. He wasn’t that surprised however: Ellen, another family friend of the Winchester’s (although Dean was never quite too sure of how she knew their father), was always prompt to work. She had a daughter that also worked on the team, though Dean also didn’t know when or where she did. Ellen never had played favorites as long as Dean had known her, and treated everybody rather maternally, albeit, as no-nonsense as she possibly could. The eldest Winchester supposed that was one of the reasons that Karen had her open so often, since somebody had to whip the groggy young’uns into working.  
       Thankfully, though Dean was initially groggy in the morning, he functioned better than some of his other crew members. Like that one dude, Ash, for example. They probably wouldn’t see the likes of him until thirty minutes after the morning shift started.

       “Looking good Ellen,” Dean casually tossed as he walked past her and into the back, fishing his uniform from his black bag. He tied the apron around his waist, stopping to give himself a once over in the mirror of the staff bathroom.  
       He wore his hair as he always had, -slightly gelled, and spiked up. It was for one of these reasons that he was thankful he didn’t have to wear the stupid, fucking hat. Dean looked like a complete dork when his hair was down. He wasn’t exactly clean shaven, but, his stubble was well kept. No deep bags around his eyes, which was also good.  
       After a while, he deemed himself suitable enough to pass as a functioning human being instead of the daily hoards of zombies that meandered through the café. He cracked a wide smile at himself, winked, and slipped out front to work.

       As expected, the morning began as every other morning had thus far: get the coffee brewing, get the pastries and shit out in the displays, and fill the tills. Check. Serve first five customers, get soups going so they’re ready for the lunch rush. Check. Pull Ellen off of Ash’s ass when he arrives thirty minutes late, without his apron, as per every Tuesday and Friday Ash worked. Check.  
       Dean really wasn’t sure why Karen thought he wouldn’t be able to handle working solo for so long. The job was easier than anybody played it up to be. He stayed at his till, staring out the large window at the street, as he predicted he’d be doing fairly often. Everything he had to be doing was done at this point, and he had nothing but time to kill. Aside, it wouldn’t hurt to watch the crowds wandering by and speculate about them.

       Like, perhaps the old man that had tottered by, meticulously tapping away with his cane, was serving in the military. And maybe, he was now living out his golden days, hopelessly dreaming about his glory days. He’d probably have a little wife back home, who wore her age with pride, though the glow in her eyes still mimicked the one she wore when they first met in their twenties.  
       Or, what about the young brunette strolling past? With that hot, little red coat and white skirt combo? There was no way she didn’t know how fine she was. Maybe she was out to impress her little boy toy, or simply felt a little hot that morning. Whatever the case, Dean longed for her to drop by sometime to visit him, -perhaps buy a coffee while she was at it.  
       Shit, there seems to be a young, douchebag following her. Though he was almost dressed to the nines in his tan overcoat, tight grey pants, and long red scarf, his face did not look half as nice as his outfit did. He was kind of gruff, stubbly, and extraordinarily asleep looking. No wonder the dude looked so uncomfortable: even if it was barely morning, it was still pretty damn hot out. Dean was sweltering in pants and a t-shirt, let alone an overcoat and scarf. This guy was most obviously a student, probably apprenticing for something, and in desperate need of-

       Coffee. Right.  
       Dean shook the daze off, straightening himself up as he watched said young zombie waltz through the café doors. He pulled on his practiced cashier-smile, (the one where your mouth says ‘I’m pleased to serve you’, but your eyes say ‘Help me, I’m here against my will), waiting for the young man to give an order.  
       “Caramel latté, medium, extra caramel syrup.”  
       “Geeze, want some coffee to go with your diabetes?” Oh. Perhaps that’s why Karen was so hesitant on letting Dean work on his own. With Karen gone, Dean had lost his filter. His intentions were always good, but, he was always a bit rough around the edges. And that was putting it nicely.

       “Look, I stayed up all night writing a paper, and I need to get going.” The young man looked up at him, eyebrow quirked. And for the moment, Dean almost lost his breath; whoever this guy was, he had the most unnaturally blue eyes he had ever seen. The last time Dean saw eyes like that was on a Siberian Husky, that some dude that he played football with, had. It was a little unnerving.  
       “Yeah, right, right.” Dean shook it off, punching in his order before he started assembling the drink. “Sorry, not all of us are cheery in the morning. What’s the name?”  
       The guy paused, watching over his coffee very carefully as if he expected Dean to spike it or something. Fucking weirdo. Eventually, just as the silence between the two began getting painfully awkward and the latté was half assembled, he spoke again. “Castiel.”

       Dean nodded in reply, grabbing two cups: one porcelain, one paper. He looked back to his customer right before he began pouring. “Right. Okay. To stay or to go?”  
       Another uncomfortable pause. “Go.”  
       “Okay.” Dean poured the brew into one of the paper cups, scrawling a name on the brown design in sharpie, then placing it on the counter. “Three-ninety-nine.”  
       Castiel nodded curtly, slipping his hand into his back pocket to pull out a plain black wallet. He placed a five dollar bill on the counter in exchange for his coffee, nodded, and then quickly walked back outside and on his merry way.

       Dean watched after him for a while, mind racing about where on earth he could be going, and how he got that stick shoved so far up his ass. After a while, he shrugged it off, chalking the encounter up to another ugly, Tuesday morning. He didn’t blame him in the end. After all, he’d much rather still be asleep at the moment. Castiel didn’t get anything, and still had to be off and going in the morning. Poor bastard.  
       “Ash, get off your lazy fucking ass and help me make soups. We’re going to get behind at this rate and-“  
       The Winchester suppressed a sigh, letting it fizzle before he could exhale. He turned tail and headed back to the kitchen, prepared to pull Ellen and Ash away from each other’s throats once again. He definitely didn’t blame Castiel about being so blunt; there was just something about a Tuesday that made poor bastards of everybody.  
       Dean included.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: 
> 
> I went on a huge writing kick last night, and pumped this chapter out. Forgive the grammatical/flow errors, since I ended up writing it all night last night (as well as watching Destiel videos). Thanks for reading, thanks more for the feedback. C: Adieu.


	3. A Lovely, Miserable Day

             The forecast had lied. The weatherman, all smiles and cheap haircuts, pronounced that Thursday would have a cloud overhang and a slight chance of rain. And somewhere in between skipping through trees on his way to work to stay semi-dry, Dean decided that the forecast was a crock of bullshit. This further enforced the reasons why Dean didn’t take advice from men in suits.  
            He bounced his backpack father up his back with a shrug of his shoulders, readjusting it for another quick burst through the storm. Head down, he ran ahead, shuddering at the cool sting of rain on his skin as he ducked under another tree. Though some part of him liked running, he could do without feeling like the icy water was splitting into his core. It always made his joints ache, his breath catch, and created a numbness in his hands and feet. The worst part? That awful itch that persisted after his skin got too cold. Dean huffed bitterly: so much for that nice, hot July.

            His second week of working under Karen wasn’t going so badly. He was especially looking forward to working today especially now that he didn’t have his boss hawking over his shoulder. Maybe then he could poke around and get to know certain people a bit better. He even went out of his way to gel his hair up with extra care and try out that new cologne that his mother bought him last Christmas. Something like Boss, or Hugo or something like that. It smelt expensive nonetheless.  
            Shame all of that went to waste. Dean swiveled his head to the left, tucking his head into his collar bone to try to catch a whiff of scent sprayed over his neck. Nope. Just as he had expected. He smelt like nothing but rain, man musk, and a little like wet dog. Today was already off to a miserable start. However, he would not let the weather phase him out all too much. Dean absolutely hated going to work in a crappy mood. Aside, people complained too much as it is without Dean giving them an actual reason to bitch about.

            Another deep sigh as he assumed the stance: head down, shoulders bunched, heavy exhale, run, run, run, stop under tree to shake ice water off. Wash, rinse, repeat. Dean had gotten about nine trees in before he had to stop and rub down his hands, trying to get some blood flowing back into the joints. He raised his hands to his face, blowing hot air into the hollow between his palms. Once deemed significantly warm, he would unlace his fingers and stretch them out, trying to get feeling back.  
            Shit, maybe he had arthritis or something. His mother, Mary, had been diagnosed with severe arthritis in her knee a few years earlier, back when the boys had been eighteen and fourteen. Dean had done everything in his power to be there for his mother as she adjusted. On bad days, he remembers his mother sitting at the base of the winding steps, twenty-seven in all, looking up almost hopelessly. Dean would gather his slight mother into his arms, and put her to bed himself without as much as a thought. To this day, Dean would drop anything if his mother called for him.  
            But yeah, he really didn’t want arthritis. He couldn’t imagine having to stop working with his hands. He’s have to stop working on his Baby, and that would destroy him from the inside out. A man’s car is-

            “You know, your hands aren’t going to fall off. It’s not that cold.” A voice cut between the sound of the rain and Dean’s muddled thoughts. And though he never would admit it, Dean had probably jumped a few feet in surprise. If he could have balled his hands into fists, he would have clocked the guy.  
            It took a few seconds to process who was in front of him. He was a few inches shorter than him, most likely of male gender considering the slight stubble over his jaw. His eyes were this icy blue that near drew the oxygen straight out of the air. Dean found himself trying to choke down a solid breath. Somewhere in the back of his head, Dean could swear that he’d felt this breath taking emptiness before at some point.  
  
            “Hey, you in there?” The guy waved a surprisingly slender hand in front of Dean’s face. The Winchester took a step back, sparing his nose a gentle bap from the back of the guy’s hand.  
            “I, uh-“ He started, slowly starting to focus on the man and where he’d seen him before. “Yeah, no. Sorry. I guess the cold is really messing with me.”  
            The guy tutted quietly, focusing his slightly softer stare at Dean. His head tilted ever so slightly, like a confused puppy dog listening to a new sound. “I don’t understand. You’re looking at me like you don’t remember me. How could the temperature have something to do with that kind of thing?”  
            “What? I-“ Dean faltered, looking at the young man kind of flabbergasted. “No, no, no. It’s an expression. I’m just-“

            “Cold?” He shook his head incredulously, chuckling under his breath. The guy allowed a small hint of a smile to cross his face as he studied Dean, -flustered, shivering, and wet to the bone. He then stepped away from Dean, twirling his black umbrella over his head as he cast a coy glance over his shoulder.  
            Dean took this momentary pause, staring at the back of this mysterious stranger. He stood tall, however, around a head shorter than the Winchester boy himself. Hah. Shorty. He was slight in size, but of a swimmer’s build, -a lean, muscular. He wore himself well: tan overcoat, deep red scarf, semi-tight black pants, and well-loved, black, penny loafers. However, his stance was slightly different. His posture was strong, head held high and sure of himself. But, his left arm, the one not occupied by the umbrella, was held at a slightly gauky angle, hand slightly protruding from the pockets in the beige coat. Or maybe it looked a little off due to the fact he was slowly walking away in the pouring rain. In the safety of the umbrella. Which Dean did not have. Fuck.  
            “Come on, let’s go get coffee to warm up.” The guy called back, pausing again to look back at the starstruck Dean. His voice was deep and gravely. It churned something fierce inside him, which slowly snapped Dean back into his normal train of thought.

            “Yeah, right.” Winchester ran over to the mysterious stranger, darting into the safety under the black umbrella. “I work there anyways. I’m a barista at Café des-“  
            “I know, it’s that coffee shop down on main street. I frequent it when I’m going to class.” The stranger nods a little, looking back to Dean. The stranger met his eyes; that horribly shocking blue baring into the honeyed, dewy green of the eldest Winchester. It made him uneasy, and-  
            “Oh god, I remember! Yeah! Right! You’re the guy!”  
            “The guy? There is a specific ‘guy’?” As they walked, the stranger looked over to the barista, who watched him rather curious. “Was I not informed about the designated guy?”  
            Dean rolled his eyes jokingly, looking over to the stranger with a smirk. “What planet were you born on dude?”  
            “Earth…?”  
            “Fuck, forget it, guy.” Dean laughed a little, watching the rain fall outside the umbrella they shared. They were reaching the end of the park, buildings slowly rolling up as park leaked into the little stretch of downtown buildings and shops. “You’re the diabetes-drink-guy.”

            “A caramel latté with extra caramel will not give you diabetes, Mister…?” The stranger paused mid-sentence, looking up at Dean to catch his eyes again. It was kind of cute, Dean had to admit. Diabetes-drink-guy only came up to the bridge of his nose.  
            “The name is Dean. None of that ‘Mister’ crap.”  
            “Dean.” He nodded, absorbing the information somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Dean could almost watch him repeating it over and over in his head, burning into his immediate memory. “Dean. Alright then. I’m Castiel, in case you forgot.”  
            “Cas. That sounds familiar.” The gears in Dean’s head began slowly clicking into place. Cas had mentioned something along the lines when Dean was throwing a drink together for him last. “You always drink caramel lattés?”

            Castiel gave a little shrug as they walked, finally entering the more urban area of town. He could see the little, wooden benches facing out into the street, bordered by the clay flower pots housing grateful, white flowers. Their petals were wilting evermore, showing visible signs of age as August drew nearer. Dean couldn’t say he would miss the flowers all that much, but, they always greeted him as he wound his way up to the shop. Just as they were doing now.  
            The blue-eyed man stopped beside one of the flower pots, looking down at his watch. He let out a soft, disappointed sigh, though it was audible enough to be heard over the incessant sound of the rain. “I drink other things too. However, I’m really late for class.”  
            “Class? It’s July. Shouldn’t class have let out by-“  
            “I take summer classes. I wanted to change my major from Theology to something more…” He paused, tilting his head again as he racked his brain for an answer. “Practical. I wanted something more practical.”        

            “Theology? I never took you for a bible thumper. I-“  
            Castiel shot Dean a look so cold that the voice wilted in his throat. He then looked away, shaking his head again. “Anyways, Dean. I’m late. I’d love to stop in and get a coffee from you, but, I find myself unable to forgo any more spare time. I might stop in later if you’re still working.”  
            If he was still working? Dean looked down at the smaller of the two rather puzzled. Why couldn’t he come in later? Why was it adamant that Dean be working? Oh well. Dean was probably reading too far into the situation, not that he cared to find an answer to it in the first place. It would be best not to look a gift horse in the mouth; he could be walking to work in the freezing rain with company and without an umbrella. Aside, not many people would offer to share an umbrella with Dean, especially not when it was this cold and this short on time. And this conspiracy shit was more Ash’s gig anyways. Dean nodded, shifting his backpack back onto the square of his shoulders. “Yeah, sure. I might see you later then.”  
            And with that, Castiel nodded and was on his merry little way. Dean, too, pushed the large, wooden doors open to Café des Fenêtres and stepped inside. He couldn’t have himself standing outside catching the death of him, now could he?  


            The little silver bell above the door chimed as the door slowly closed behind him. The smell of café washed over him like a torrent of delicious heat. He wasn’t greeted with Karen’s cheery little “Hello!”, or a gruff, but caring “Mornin’ Dean” from Ellen. It was pure silence. The Winchester let his eyes slip shut, drawing a deep breath in. He let it fill his lungs, spreading a Java-filled warmth from his core out into the tips of his fingertips. The gradual transition of temperature left tingles on his skin, still cool and damp to the touch. If Dean could have held onto the feeling, he would have stayed there forever. But, he had shit to do today.  
            Dean walked past the little wooden chairs and the matching tables, running his fingertips over the polished surfaces. Only the soft sliding of his fingers and the accompaniment of the rhythmic fall of his footsteps filled the room. He could see and hear the crowds in his mind’s eye. It was almost as familiar to him as his little apartment was. Slowly, ever so slowly, this café was becoming another home.  
            He continued walking into the back, heading towards the straight edged mirror where he oft checked himself out, and then put his uniform on for the day. He tied the chocolate-colored strings of the apron around his torso, letting it sit square on his hips. Sure, the apron wasn’t his favorite thing to wear and it definitely wasn’t the most flattering, but it was becoming a welcomed part of his morning routine. He pat the front down, assessing himself before he headed out to the front to start the day.  
            Dean flipped the sign in the front of the windows, lighting up the cheery little “We’re Open” that Karen had designed specifically for the shop. He began brewing the coffee, starting the kitchen up, humming some old, big-hair rock song to himself. Though the day was just beginning, though he’d met a peculiar stranger on his morning deep-freeze of a walk, Dean could tell: today was going to be a good day.  



End file.
